


Ride

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ishimaru’s also clearly piecing together the unfamiliar concept of ditching school in his mind, and Mondo would really like to head off the inevitable lecture he’s going to get for it before Ishimaru can get himself going on the subject." Ishimaru comes to visit after Mondo ditches class and Mondo finds him easier to distract than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride

Mondo is in the garage when Ishimaru opens the door.

He didn’t hear the other knock. It’s hard to hear even a rap directly against the door when he has the industrial-strength fan running in the enclosed space; there’s no hope at all of hearing anyone trying to get his attention from the front door of the house. That’s what Daiya’s for, or what he’s _supposed_ to be for -- namely giving Mondo more than a few seconds of warning to figure out his excuse for not coming to school before his very sweet, very loving, very _uptight_ boyfriend walks into the garage to find him humming tunelessly as he works on the engine of his motorcycle. Mondo doesn’t even have long enough to feel the knot of panic in his chest at realizing Ishimaru is about to catch him; he doesn’t even hear the door open, doesn’t look up until the shocked judgment of “ _Kyoudai!_ ” startles him so badly he drops his wrench.

“Shit,” Mondo blurts, the word coming at once as he lifts his head to see Ishimaru framed in the doorway to the garage. He still has a hold on the handle, is still wearing the clean white of his school uniform buttoned all the way up to his throat; his boots are laced up to his knees, the black of them bright and as shining as if they’re fresh off the shelf instead of broken in by years of use. “Hey.”

“You weren’t at school,” Ishimaru informs him from the doorway. His forehead is creased, his eyebrows drawn in over his eyes like he’s trying to make sense out of the scene in front of him, his mouth pulling down into the frown that more often means intensity rather than anger. It still _is_ intensity, as far as Mondo can tell, at least for now; but Ishimaru’s also clearly piecing together the unfamiliar concept of ditching school in his mind, and Mondo would really like to head off the inevitable lecture he’s going to get for it before Ishimaru can get himself going on the subject. “I assumed you must be ill to miss an opportunity at furthering your education.”

“Yeah,” Mondo says, pushing the wrench sideways behind the barrier of the motorcycle wheel and reaching for a rag to make a best-effort but ultimately futile attempt at wiping his hands clean of the oil caught around his knuckles and under his fingernails. “I thought I might’ve had a cold this morning but, uh. It cleared up after I ate something.”

Ishimaru’s mouth sets, his chin tips down. “You could have returned and only been absent for the morning instead of missing a full day of coursework,” he says, and Mondo can hear his voice hitting a rhythm, as if he’s finding his stride in the familiarity of the words. “We have limited time left to make use of the opportunities available to us at high school, it’s important for us to make the most of them while we still can.”

“I know,” Mondo says, because he does know, or at least he’s heard this particular speech often enough from Ishimaru to know what comes next. He braces a hand against the floor and starts to push himself to his feet. “I’m not gonna go to university, though. There’s not much point in sitting through a handful of classes just so I can stop going to ‘em in a few months.”

“You could,” Ishimaru reminds him, but Mondo doesn’t lift his head to see the other’s attention on him; he knows this part of the argument by heart, thinks he could imitate the very inflection of Ishimaru’s voice on the high points of his sentences if he tried. “You underestimate your own abilities, kyoudai, if you wanted--”

 _You could do whatever you want_ , Mondo hears. _If you want to go to university you can, I would be more than happy to help you study for entrance exams_. He’s opening his mouth to answer -- to explain, again, that he _doesn’t_ want to go, that he’s completely happy staying here and getting a part-time job to help cover rent while Ishimaru is pursuing the corporate career Mondo knows he’ll excel at -- before he realizes that he _didn’t_ hear, that Ishimaru never did finish the end of his usual sentence. Mondo blinks and lifts his head to meet the focused disappointment in Ishimaru’s expression; but that’s absent too, when he looks for it, vanished along with the tension in the other’s forehead and the frown at his lips. He’s just staring at Mondo, now, his eyes wide and mouth soft and his entire expression so completely blank of emotion that he almost doesn’t look like himself for the first moment Mondo is watching him.

“Kyoudai?” Mondo asks, but Ishimaru doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. He’s not completely glazed over -- his gaze is drifting over Mondo’s shirt and the dirt clinging to his bare arms -- but there’s nothing worth looking at as far as Mondo can tell. Even when he looks down all there is is the plain white of the sleeveless undershirt he has on, even that smeared over with grime from the floor of the garage until it’s hard to identify as white at all. Maybe it’s the dirt that Ishimaru is objecting to; but he doesn’t look to be objecting at all, and in all the time Mondo has known Ishimaru he’s never known him to struggle with finding words for judgment.

“Kyoudai,” Mondo tries again, but Ishimaru doesn’t so much as blink. “Hey.” He takes a step around his motorcycle to draw closer to the garage door. “Kiyotaka.”

Ishimaru jumps, jerking as if he’s been shocked or as if he’s just waking up. “What? Yes.”

Mondo frowns. “You alright?”

“Yes.” Ishimaru shakes his head like he’s trying to collect himself before his attention skips down to Mondo’s shirt again. “Yes, my apologies.”

“Sorry about the dirt,” Mondo offers, in case that’s what has Ishimaru so off-balance. “It’s just an old shirt, it’s not like it’s part of my uniform or anything.”

“Oh,” Ishimaru says. “No. It’s fine. I don’t mind.” His voice is strange, strained in the back of his throat like he’s fighting back a cough; there’s color rising to his cheeks, a flush surfacing under his skin like it’s trying to make its way up to the light. “It’s no problem.”

Mondo considers Ishimaru for a moment: the unfocused drag of his gaze over Mondo’s shirt, the color in his cheeks, the way his grip on the doorhandle is going white-knuckled with force. He considers delicacy, considers subtlety; and then he does what he always does, and ignores them completely in favor of directness.

“Kyoudai.” Ishimaru’s gaze jumps back up to Mondo’s face and he blinks hard like he’s trying to focus himself. Mondo tries valiantly to resist glancing at the front of Ishimaru’s uniform pants and utterly fails to avoid temptation. “Are you turned on by this?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Ishimaru gasps, sounding a little like the sound has been startled out of him. His feet shift and he angles his body back as if the addition of a little shadow will hide the tension at the front of his pants. “Don’t say that kind of thing out loud!”

“Why not?” Mondo asks. He takes a step forward, half expecting Ishimaru to stumble farther backwards; but apparently the appeal of his bare arms is enough to overcome Ishimaru’s usual leeriness of dirt and grime, because he doesn’t move even when Mondo is close enough to cast the other in his shadow. “‘S my house, can’t I say it here?”

“It’s,” Ishimaru starts, his cheeks going brighter with the overabundance of emotion he always so suffers from. “Your brother is still here.”

“‘Kay.” Mondo reaches out to the handle of the garage door to curl his fingers in over the tight grip Ishimaru has on the support. Ishimaru chokes off a sound at the contact, his hand flexing tighter as Mondo closes his hand over the other’s, but when Mondo pulls forward Ishimaru takes a step into the garage to make space for the door to start to close behind him. “So we shut the door.”

“We shouldn’t,” Ishimaru says, the words clear and stern with self-assurance but breaking off with the jaggedness of a cliff face when he tries to catch a breath. “We should be in a bedroom, on the weekend, when we don’t have school in the morning.”

“You’re studying all the time,” Mondo tells him, dragging the door until it clicks shut behind Ishimaru’s shoulders. When he looks down he can see the dark of Ishimaru’s lashes when he blinks, can see the tremor of the other’s mouth as he tries to catch a breath. “There’s always something for you to do in the morning.”

“We _both_ have school in the morning,” Ishimaru reminds him. Mondo lets Ishimaru maintain his hold on the door and lets his support go so he can reach for the lock instead. Ishimaru doesn’t so much as flinch at the click of the mechanism; Mondo can hear his voice gaining strength in his throat as he finds his moral footing. “I only intended to come by to check on your health, kyoudai.”

“I’m fine,” Mondo tells him, bracing his palm against the door as he leans in closer to the set of Ishimaru’s mouth. “Could do with some tension relief, though.” He fits a knee between Ishimaru’s, leans in closer to press hard against the other’s hips. “You don’t seem very relaxed yourself.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Ishimaru groans, loudly enough that Mondo is glad for the sound of the fan humming to drown him out and for the weight of the shut door to keep the sound in the space. “ _Kyoudai_.”

“Lemme have fifteen minutes,” Mondo purrs, knowing he’s won this argument but still talking for the way Ishimaru’s lashes are fluttering, for the way the other’s throat is working on tension with every word Mondo offers to the gap between their lips. “You gotta learn how to unwind sometimes, you know?”

“Yes,” Ishimaru says, sounding dazed and unfocused, but there’s nothing unfocused about the way he arches up off the wall to press himself in against Mondo’s leg. It’s a fluid motion, oddly graceful compared to the structured rigidity of his usual actions; and it does what it always does, which is blow all Mondo’s coherency right out of his head. He groans something, feeling the sound more than hearing it, and Ishimaru’s fingers land in his hair to drag him in closer at the same time Mondo capitulates and pushes forward for a kiss. The dual effort brings them together with too-much force, bruises Mondo’s lip between their teeth and leaves them struggling for elegance for a moment; but Ishimaru doesn’t pull away, he’s letting the handle of the locked door go to catch Mondo’s head between both hands, and Mondo’s not going to complain about Ishimaru taking charge to crush kisses against his mouth. He reaches without thinking, weighting his hand hard against the curve of the other’s waist, and it’s only as Ishimaru arches against him at the contact that Mondo realizes the effect his hands are likely to have on the white of the other’s uniform.

“Shit,” he blurts, the word breaking free from his mouth even with the weight of Ishimaru’s lips pressing against his. “Sorry, my hands are--”

“It’s fine,” Ishimaru says, and Mondo can feel shock hit him like a physical force.

“I’m going to leave fingerprints,” he tries again, just in case Ishimaru wasn’t listening the first time. “On your clothes, it’s going to be a pain to get clean.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ishimaru says, punctuating with the weight of a kiss that leaves no doubt at all as to the focus of his attention. “Don’t worry.”

Mondo’s not about to complain about that. He might still be a little shell-shocked -- he’s never known Ishimaru to not care about the state of his clothes before -- but it’s not like he’s going to wait for another invitation to get said clothes off Ishimaru’s body as rapidly as possible. The crisp lines of the uniform give way to the friction of his hands, the tidy tucked-in edges of Ishimaru’s jacket tugging free as quickly as Mondo closes his hand on the fabric to drag it loose; that’s enough to push it up off Ishimaru’s hips, enough for Mondo to get his fingers in under the weight of the top layer of fabric, and from there it’s just a drag and a shove to get Ishimaru’s undershirt free so Mondo can press his fingers flush against bare skin. Ishimaru shudders at the contact, his spine arching him off the support of the door and close against Mondo, and Mondo take another half-step in to run the other up against the wall at his back and hold him still while he maneuvers a hand free to fumble with Ishimaru’s belt instead.

“I didn’t think you’d be into this,” he says, while Ishimaru’s fingers are fisting on the loose tangle of his hair brushing over his shoulders where he left it down this morning instead of going through the trouble of styling it up. “I should’ve invited you over when I decided to ditch this morning.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Ishimaru corrects him, struggling for coherency so badly even this basic statement comes out strained in his throat. Mondo tugs his belt free of its buckle, looks down so he can pull open the zipper of the other’s pants to follow; Ishimaru bucks up against his hand, gasping through a shuddering inhale that sounds more like a sob than the heat Mondo knows it is. “You should have--gone to school.”

“Yeah,” Mondo says, purring the words to laughter in his throat. “And you would’ve gone home to study and left me to take care of myself all alone.” He drags open the front of Ishimaru’s pants and pushes his fingers in against the other boy’s stomach to slide down under the loosened tangle of his clothes; Ishimaru gasps almost-shock at the motion, his hips rocking forward as Mondo’s fingertips press down against the heat of his cock. “Ain’t this more fun?”

“Oh,” Ishimaru says, and then, as Mondo curls his fingers into a hold to stroke up over him: “ _Ah_ ,” his head going back as his eyes squeeze shut like he’s trying to hold back tears. His throat is tense, Mondo can see the strain of effort thrumming just under the skin with sound Ishimaru is managing to fight back, for now -- it makes him want to get closer, to lean in and press his nose to the other’s neck to feel the hum of vibration matching the tension tight all through the other’s body.

“Kyoudai,” he says, and does lean in, taking advantage of his unstyled hair to bump his forehead against Ishimaru’s cheek as he breathes in along the other’s jawline. “Kiyotaka.”

“I can’t,” Ishimaru gasps, and for a moment Mondo thinks it’s encouragement on the other’s tongue, the kind of odd unformed vocalizations he tends to give when he’s too worked up. But then Mondo strokes over him, and Ishimaru rocks up to meet him, and his foot slips against the dust on the floor, his boot skidding out to nearly drop him to his knees. Ishimaru’s hold on Mondo’s hair drags with sudden force as he tries to catch himself, the weight pulling sharp pain over the other’s scalp, and Mondo hisses at the hurt even as he lets Ishimaru go to grab and brace at his hips.

“Sorry,” Ishimaru gasps, catching his footing back under himself but not letting go of Mondo’s hair. “I have to sit down.”

“So sit,” Mondo says. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

“Right here?” Ishimaru asks.

“Yeah?” Mondo looks down. “What’s wrong with--” and then he sees the floor again, with a layer of dust and grease coating the surface underfoot, and realizes the problem. “Oh.” He keeps his hold on Ishimaru’s hips, turning to look back around him in desperate search for some kind of bench or chair, maybe the one Daiya brought out here the last time he was helping Mondo rework the engine of his bike; but the chair is gone, Daiya demonstrating far better cleaning skills than Mondo is ready to give him credit for at the moment. There’s just the dust on the floor, the tools scattered haphazardly around the frame of Mondo’s bike; and the bike itself, the high back of the seat offering a suggestion that sparks like flame in Mondo’s mind even before he’s fully grasped it.

“Fine,” he says, and pulls away from the door, letting his hold on Ishimaru’s hip go so he can reach up and close his fingers around the other’s wrist instead. “C’mere.” He moves across the floor, tugging at Ishimaru’s hand while the other is still struggling to regain his footing enough to step forward, and even as he stumbles away from the support of the door it’s clear from the hesitancy in his stride that he’s not followed the logic of Mondo’s thoughts.

“Shouldn’t we go inside?” Ishimaru asks as Mondo draws closer to the bike and reaches out to touch his fingers against the leather of the seat. The shine of the chrome alongside the engine is smeared with oil, it’ll need a thorough cleaning later; but the seat is pristine, as clean as even Ishimaru could hope. “Where are we going?”

“Here,” Mondo says, and turns back to close his hands at Ishimaru’s hips and guide him around to the motorcycle by force. Ishimaru stumbles forward, obedient to the push if still lacking in comprehension; and then he blinks, and Mondo can see understanding flicker and light behind his eyes like a candleflame catching a wick.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, his voice so resonantly low on the word that Mondo is grateful, again, for the force of the fan.

“I’ve been wanting to get you on my bike for a while,” he says, urging Ishimaru forward against the edge of the seat with the push of his hands against the other’s hips. Ishimaru grabs at the back of the seat, his fingers bracing hard against the support, and Mondo ducks in against the soft dark of the short-cut hair at the back of Ishimaru’s neck to press his mouth against the top edge of the other’s collar. “Wanna give it a try like this?”

“ _Kyoudai_ ,” Ishimaru groans, the word shocked-low in the back of his throat; but he’s leaning in hard over the bike, folding at the hips like he’s ready to press himself flush to the seat and let Mondo take him right where they stand. It makes Mondo groan response with heat flaring desperate in the back of his throat, and he can’t help the way his hips buck forward to press hard against Ishimaru’s. Ishimaru’s fingers tighten against the support of the bike seat, his spine curving into accidental elegance, and for just a moment Mondo entertains the thought of keeping him right as they are, of looping a hand around Ishimaru’s hip and closing his fingers tight against the other’s length rather than bothering with any of the details something more involved would require. It’s tempting, the thought of undoing Ishimaru as he stands, with his legs quivering against Mondo’s and his fingers cramping against the back of Mondo’s bike; but then Ishimaru shifts, and grinds himself backwards with a grace as much effective as it is accidental, and long-term benefit wins out over impatience and pulls Mondo away from the lure of Ishimaru’s too-tight pants.

“Fuck,” he says, pushing Ishimaru away as he stumbles backwards over the space of the garage. “Hang on.”

“Yes,” Ishimaru says, breathless in a weird, shaky way that runs electricity through Mondo as if the other’s voice is a live wire pressed to his spine. He turns away fast, before he has time to see Ishimaru turn back to offer the fever-bright distraction of his gaze, and by the time Ishimaru is straightening from his lean over the seat of the bike Mondo has turned away entirely, is casting his focus desperately around the clutter of the space around him for something of some use to him. Mostly it’s dust, tools and grease and metal easy enough to dismiss as completely unhelpful for his current predicament; but then he sees the dark sleeve of his jacket, and his heart skids out on preemptive relief even before he fully remembers the packets he stuffed into the inside pocket some weeks ago, under pretense of “being prepared” while Ishimaru blushed and stuttered his way through what turned out to be agreement. It had been a joke, at the time; now it’s all but salvation, as Mondo steps over the distance to lift the weight of his beloved jacket and fumble through the pocket with oil-slick fingers. There’s a trio of packets in the depth of the coat, tiny foil wrappers that have made him smile with memory every time he touches them and recalls; now he pulls one free at random, not bothering to check the label before he’s casting his jacket back down and turning around to the bike.

Ishimaru took his invitation literally. Mondo probably should have expected that; Ishimaru takes everything literally, suggestions and half-hearted jokes the same as actual stated rules. It’s still startling, to turn around and find he has worked himself back against the support at the back of the bike and has his legs spread wide around the width of the engine almost as if he’s ever ridden a motorcycle before. He hasn’t -- that, at least, Mondo is sure of without having to ask for clarification -- and besides he’s slid far back against the second seat instead of the driver’s, but it’s still enough to drop Mondo’s stomach on a sudden surge of heat, enough to blow all the air from his lungs in a single startled rush.

Ishimaru looks up right away at the sound. His mouth is set, his lips drawn down into a frown like he’s trying to keep himself focused through sheer force of will; the attempt would be more effective, Mondo thinks, if his pants weren’t still undone around his hips and his lips weren’t quite so flushed-pink from the past-tense weight of Mondo’s mouth.

“Kyoudai,” Ishimaru says, attaining something like his usual stern tone for just a moment; and then his gaze drops, his eyes coming into focus on the foil in the other’s hand, and Mondo can see his eyelashes flutter, can see his usual unshakeable focus shiver away into heat for a moment. “ _Oh_.”

“Right there,” Mondo tells him, and steps in over the distance before Ishimaru can retreat from his position over the bike. Ishimaru’s lashes flutter, his attention tracking Mondo’s approach as the other steps in closer, and it’s an easy thing to brace a hand against the seat of the bike between Ishimaru’s angled-open knees and swing a leg over the weight of it. Their knees bump together -- the seat is small, was never intended for two people to share while facing each other -- but that’s easily fixed by Mondo dropping to sit against the smooth-slick leather so he can slide his knees into the gap of space under Ishimaru’s open ones.

“Here,” he suggests, dropping the packet of lube to the seat in front of him and reaching for Ishimaru’s hips. His fingers curl into the weight of the fabric, his hold closing against the tangle of cloth there; Ishimaru hisses an inhale, his hips bucking up in a sudden involuntary attempt at motion before Mondo can stop him. There’s nowhere for him to go, nothing he can gain traction on enough to effect any real movement; but it makes Mondo grin, the expression bright and flashing amusement, and then he lets one of his hands go and reaches for Ishimaru’s knee instead.

“Up,” he says, an order as casual as the tug he makes at the other’s leg, and Ishimaru obeys immediately, lifting his leg to Mondo’s pull as the other braces his foot hard against the floor. Ishimaru’s boots are laced tight to his calves; Mondo knows from experience how many minutes it takes to work them off, and under the circumstances it doesn’t seem worth it to engage in the effort. Easier by far to brace the almost-clean sole of the other’s boot against his leg, to reach and draw the other into similar support, and this time when Mondo reaches back for Ishimaru’s pants the other is able to push against him to achieve an inch of height with the reflexive arch of his back and the upward cant of his hips towards some friction Mondo isn’t yet giving him. Mondo pulls Ishimaru’s pants off his hips, dragging at the loosened fabric until it’s down around the other’s thighs instead of covering his skin, and it’s not as much as he’d like but it’s the best they’re going to be able to manage, under the circumstances, and he’s willing to take what he can get.

“Good enough,” he says, letting Ishimaru’s clothes go so he can reach for the foil packet he dropped between his legs initially. Ishimaru drops back to the support of the motorcycle seat, his cheeks flushed and lips parted, and Mondo would like to watch him just for the pleasure that always comes with seeing the intensity in Ishimaru’s gaze fade to overheated sensation but he’s too occupied with handling the tiny packet, bracing the foil against his teeth so he can tear it open rather than trying to maintain a steady grip with oil-slick fingers. The packet gives way all at once, spilling sweet over his tongue as much as his fingers -- it tastes like strawberries, or some odd, latex-coated approximation of them -- but at least it’s open, and if it’s spilling to smear over his fingers and across his palm, well, that’s where he wanted it anyway. He drops the packet, lets it join the dust and oil on the floor, and when he reaches out Ishimaru hisses an exhale, shuddering through a wave of tension Mondo can hear in his throat as clearly as he can feel it in the pressure of the other’s boots against his thighs.

“Kyoudai,” Ishimaru manages, his feet weighting hard against the support Mondo is offering for him. “Are we really going to...right here?”

“Yeah.” Mondo braces a hand against the underside of Ishimaru’s thigh and looks up to see the attention in the crimson gaze the other is turning on him. “Unless you don’t want to.”

He would stop. Mondo knows that in himself, knows that even with Ishimaru’s legs spread open in front of him and his own cock aching for friction against the inside of his pants he would stop at a word from Ishimaru, would pull his hand back and let the other collect himself and his composure untouched. He might have to lock himself in his bedroom or the bathroom for a few minutes to regain some calm of his own; but he would do it, would capitulate at the least hesitation from the other. But Ishimaru is looking at the slick of his fingers instead of his face, is breathing harder like the air in the room is getting thinner with every inhale he manages, and when he shakes his head it’s fast and sharp, rushed on the same certainty that cants his legs wider into an invitation Mondo is pretty sure is involuntary.

“No,” he says, and he sounds sure of himself even as he reaches to brace himself against the edge of the seat. “Let’s do it.”

Mondo doesn’t wait for more. He already has his hand against Ishimaru’s thigh, already has his fingers splayed wide against the soft of the other’s skin; it’s no effort at all to reach out with the sweet slick covering his other hand and press his touch against the tight of the other’s entrance. Ishimaru gasps an inhale, tipping his head back in the same involuntary rush he has shown every time they’ve done this before; but this time Mondo doesn’t have to tell him to relax, doesn’t have to murmur him into calm before the other can shudder through an exhale and let himself ease to Mondo’s touch. It’s a tight fit, as it always is; but this Mondo knows how to do, this has a rhythm and a structure he knows as well as Ishimaru knows the rules of their school. He pushes a little harder against Ishimaru’s thigh, murmurs something mostly unintelligible around the shape of _kyoudai_ or _Kiyotaka_ , maybe, and Ishimaru gusts an exhale and eases enough for Mondo to slide a finger into him. The first stroke is the hardest; after that Mondo’s movements get easier with each thrust, Ishimaru opening up to him while Mondo watches the inside of his thighs for the tremor of tension that will say _too much_ , that will say _go slower_ before Ishimaru can find the words for it. But he’s being particularly gentle, or maybe Ishimaru really is hotter than usual in this setting, because he doesn’t have to pull back, doesn’t have to catch himself to stillness, and after what feels like no time at all he’s pressing in with a second finger, pushing Ishimaru open around the pair together instead of just one. Ishimaru shudders at the pressure, Mondo can hear the beginnings of a whimper in his throat and can see the flex of his fingers against the frame of the bike; but he doesn’t tell Mondo to stop, and Mondo can feel the rhythm working itself into his shoulder, up the weight of his arm and into the angle of his fingers to spark heat into his imagination. It would be just like this, imagination and memory purr in harmony in his mind, just at this angle and this force and this rhythm if he were bending over Ishimaru, if it were his hips rocking forward instead of his arm.

“Kyoudai,” Ishimaru says, and his voice is straining, is cracking over the familiar vowels of the word like he’s trying to remember how to put voice to it. “Are you…”

“Yeah,” Mondo says. _His_ voice is dragging low, rough in the back of his throat until he almost doesn’t recognize himself for the tone purring raw over his vocal chords. “You’re ready.” He draws his fingers free, feeling the easy slide of them as he slips out of Ishimaru’s body; Ishimaru whimpers at the movement, his hips rocking up as if in pursuit of the friction Mondo is pulling away from him, and for just a moment it’s hard for Mondo to even remember how to fill his lungs with air for the heat that surrounds him.

“Here,” he says, pointless reassurance as if Ishimaru can’t hear him reaching for his pants, as if Ishimaru isn’t already sliding his feet off the support of Mondo’s thighs and pushing himself to sit more upright against the motorcycle seat. He’s too close sitting up, Mondo can barely get his belt undone and has to struggle blind with his fly, but he doesn’t put voice to the difficulty because Ishimaru is bracing a hand at his shoulder, is tensing his leg around Mondo’s knee to pull himself in before Mondo is quite ready for him. There’s a drag of friction, Mondo pushing hard at his clothes as Ishimaru arches in close against him, and then he’s bracing a hand at Ishimaru’s spine and making a fist of crisp-ironed jacket and holding the other steady as he presses himself close against Mondo’s chest. There’s a moment of effort, Ishimaru’s foot digging in hard at Mondo’s calf and Mondo tipping sideways to nearly dump them both onto the floor; but then Mondo drags at Ishimaru’s shirt, and Ishimaru cants his hips in closer, and when Mondo rocks up the head of his cock runs up against slick-warm skin. Ishimaru hisses a breath, his whole body going tense for a moment; and then Mondo says “Kyoudai,” the rough edges of his voice softened to nearly a purr for a moment, and Ishimaru moans at his shoulder and lets himself sink down onto the other’s cock. There’s a moment of resistance, a pause as Mondo shifts his weight and Ishimaru changes his angle; but then they line up all at once, their bodies sliding together more by accident than intent, and Mondo makes a sound low and loud enough to entirely eclipse the breathless groan Ishimaru offers.

“Fuck,” Mondo says, incoherency taking the lead from rationality, and rocks his hips up hard, straining for more sensation against the heat of Ishimaru tight around him. Ishimaru whimpers again, choking on a breath like he’s forgotten the premise of breathing, and his fingers tighten at Mondo’s shoulder, digging hard enough to threaten the edge of pain before Mondo can gain his breath back enough to push them away.

“Kyoudai,” he says, but that’s not right, that’s not close enough: “Kiyotaka” and Ishimaru hisses an inhale like he’s been shocked, like hearing his name from Mondo’s mouth is as good as a kiss, as good as the press of fingers Mondo is fumbling around the other’s cock. He can’t rock up, can’t gain enough traction against the weight of Ishimaru on his lap; but there’s the support of the floor under him, the resistance enough to let him push up and back and topple Ishimaru back over the motorcycle seat. There’s not enough space -- Ishimaru ends up pressed more against the back of the bike seat instead of over the soft of the leather -- but all Mondo needs is a few inches of space to move, and that he has. When he draws back he can take a sharp thrust forward, can drive Ishimaru’s eyes wide and his mouth gasping and his fingers tense, and that’s all secondary to the flare of heat that ripples up Mondo’s spine, sweat prickling against the catch of his shirt like the air has suddenly gone hot even with the rush of the fan in the space.

Ishimaru can’t achieve much movement. His legs are tangled in his clothes, the effort required to strip off his boots and the weight of his pants enough to keep him almost wholly immobile where Mondo has pushed him; but Mondo doesn’t need him to move, not when he has the space he needs to rock forward hard, and besides Ishimaru has more than enough space to offer the encouragement Mondo always likes best from him, the breathless moans and full-throated whimpers that come with every stroke of the other’s hips or every drag of his hand over Ishimaru’s length. Ishimaru’s legs keep flexing, tightening at Mondo’s hips like he’s trying to pull the other closer, and if he was flushed with desire before he’s glowing now, his cheeks as warm with color as if he’s been spending hours in the sun. He has his eyes closed tight, the corners creased on effort and his lashes pressed flush together; if Mondo looks for it he can see tension against the part of the other’s lips, can see the tremor of heat against Ishimaru’s mouth give way for a moment of helpless noise with each thrust Mondo takes. Mondo has a hand braced against the back of his bike, his fingers digging in hard against the leather and the metal frame under it, and normally he would be gentler than this but right now it’s all he can do to hold himself steady, to keep his balance and his breathing relatively even as he rocks forward to push Ishimaru back against the seat of the bike with the force of his thrusts and drag hard against the other’s cock to pull desperate groans of heat up his throat.

“Kiyotaka,” Mondo says, and Ishimaru shivers under him, his whole body quivering with heat that Mondo can feel tight around him as if Ishimaru is trying to draw him closer, as if Ishimaru is trying to pull Mondo deeper into himself. “Open your eyes.”

“ _Kyoudai_ ,” Ishimaru whimpers, protest in his tone if not in his speech. “I’m--I can’t, I.”

“Open your eyes,” Mondo growls, and then, to mitigate the unintended force of his words: “ _Please_ ,” more of a plea than he intended but no less true for the accidental sincerity of it. Ishimaru tenses at the sound of his voice, arching into another shudder of heat Mondo can feel like a wave up the whole length of his spine; and then he blinks, hard, like he’s dragging himself back to reality, and opens his eyes to meet Mondo’s stare.

He looks like he’s about to cry. That’s no surprise; he cries half the time Mondo kisses him, and it’s never been from anything worse than being overwhelmed. But his eyes look brighter for the moisture, his lashes clinging dark against the weight of the damp, and for a moment it’s hard for Mondo to catch his breath, hard for him to remember what he’s doing with Ishimaru’s cheeks so flushed and his eyes so bright. Ishimaru’s gaze flickers, slipping from Mondo’s eyes to his mouth, to his hair, to the curve of his throat, and then he smiles, his lips curving on an expression so soft and sudden Mondo doesn’t have time to brace himself against the heat of it.

“Oh,” he says, startled out of himself by the sudden tension along his spine. “Fuck.”

Ishimaru blinks, his focus coming back from that brief softness by the distraction of Mondo’s voice; but Mondo’s falling already, he’s past the point of inevitability before Ishimaru has caught himself enough to say “Kyoudai?” with all the resonance of sincere concern in his throat. All that is left for Mondo to do is to rock his hips forward in a last, desperate jolt, to tense his fingers harder around Ishimaru’s length, and to growl “ _Kiyotaka_ ” with all the heat he can find for his voice as the leading edge of his orgasm spills over his awareness to white out his vision. Ishimaru arches under him, hissing an inhale as sharp on surprise as on heat; but Mondo can feel his body tensing, too, can feel the telltale shudder of pleasure in the way Ishimaru clenches tight around him, and it’s enough to let him duck his head and gasp into the drawn-out waves of pleasure as Ishimaru’s fingers tighten and his breathing gives way to a voiceless moan of heat as he comes over Mondo’s hold on him.

They stay still for a moment after. Mondo’s whole body aches, his knees protesting the weight of the bike between them and his back complaining about the strain of his forward lean; but he can’t quite figure out how to maneuver back out of this position having once gotten into it, and for the first few seconds it’s all he can do to achieve semi-ordinary breathing with the heat in his chest. Ishimaru recovers his composure first, as is usually the case, and when he says “Kyoudai?” it’s enough to push Mondo through some initial impulse that brings him pulling back to sit heavily against the seat and leave Ishimaru free to push himself back more-or-less to upright in front of him. Ishimaru is flushed all over his face and breathing hard like he’s been running and can’t find air enough for his lungs; his jacket is rumpled out of all the order it once had, pushed up high on one side and with the collar clinging to the sweat-damp weight of his hair against his scalp. He looks undone, overheated and distracted out of any of his usual straitlaced composure, and Mondo thinks he’s never looked as good as he does right now.

“Come here,” he says, and reaches to press his fingers in against Ishimaru’s hair. His hands are dirty, smeared with oil and dust from before Ishimaru’s arrival and sticky-slick now with the aftermath of it, but Ishimaru’s lashes just dip over his eyes and he leans in at the pull of Mondo’s hand against him, dipping in closer to meet the other’s mouth with the part of his lips. He tastes sweet, clean and cool like milk against Mondo’s tongue, and his skin smells good too, faintly soapy like the sweat glowing him to warmth is bringing the lingering scent of his morning shower back to the surface. Mondo breathes in against him, filling his lungs with the comfortable heat of Ishimaru’s skin; and then he pulls back by an inch so he can bump his forehead against Ishimaru’s while the other lifts a hand to drag through his undone hair.

“Damn,” Mondo sighs, loud enough for Ishimaru to hear it over the whirr of the fan still rumbling behind them. “I didn’t think I’d be able to get you on my motorcycle so easily.” He lets himself smile and lifts his chin to drag the curve of the expression against Ishimaru’s mouth. “Next time I’ll take you out for a ride before you take me for one.”

Mondo’s expecting Ishimaru’s gasp of shock, his startled “ _Kyoudai!_ ” as much embarrassed as appalled. It makes him laugh to hear as he tightens his hold on Ishimaru’s hair to hold him still against the flush that burns itself to crimson across the other’s face, and then he ducks in close again to kiss the protest right off Ishimaru’s mouth for him.


End file.
